


Side Effect

by lotsandnoneatall



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Gen, Multi, Wholock, fandom: sherlock holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 07:49:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotsandnoneatall/pseuds/lotsandnoneatall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was haunted by recurring visions when he was still addicted to cocaine. But now that he is spending more time with John, the visions are coming back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something Blue

It must be late in the night, but the sky is blood-orange, as if it was sunset. Sherlock Holmes walked leisurely on the beautiful red grass. The moons glowed, and the silver leaves on nearby trees glistened. He paused by one of the larger trees, and touched the carving in its trunk: it was a circle with lines and smaller circles within it. It didn’t make sense to Sherlock, but it somehow seemed familiar…

            He sat with his back against the tree. He felt like he was supposed to be meeting someone.  Then, he saw a figure walking towards him. It waved, and shouted something to Sherlock. “What?” Sherlock called back.

            The figure shouted again, but was drowned out by a strange buzzing and screeching noise. The buzzing got louder and louder—

           

            Sherlock’s eyes snapped open.

 

He was sweating profusely and a sheet was tangled around one of his legs. He lay still, trying to remember every part of his dream.

            It was strange. He’s seen that place before, but not in his sleep. When he was still using, he had these hallucinations often: of a strange yet familiar land, with an indistiguishable person approaching him. He had many of these different visions, different each time. He had lived from injection to injection, yearning for more stimulation and more mirages.

            But weren’t flashbacks more common in LSD use than in cocaine? _Something to look into,_ Sherlock noted. Then again, it only happened once. Still, he thought he’d better start keeping a record of sleep habits. (Which shouldn’t be too difficult, since Sherlock slept rarely.)

“Morning,” John Watson greeted Sherlock with toast in his mouth without taking his eyes off _The Times_. Sherlock didn’t answer.

          _Buzzzz, buzzzz._ Sherlock whipped his head around at the noise. It had been the same sound from his dream.

John looked at Sherlock curiously. “Got another text?” he asked, nodding to the phone of the table.

            “Mmm,” Sherlock replied, grabbing the phone.

 

_Three homicides. Possible cereal murderer. Sending you the address now –Lestrade_

Sherlock yawned. “Ready?” he asked John.

            John stopped chewing. “For what?”

“We’ve got a case.”

            *********

                “I still don’t see why you couldn’t’ve bothered to change,” John said in the back of a cab, looking at Sherlock’s pajamas. Sherlock shrugged.“Did you have any dreams last night?” John asked. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and silently looked at John. “You talked in your sleep,” he explained. “At least you’ve finally _got_ sleep.”

            They exited the cab upon arrival at a small house with several police cars parked outside. They ducked under the _POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS_ tape and entered the crime scene.

            “This is the third victim. Kay James. 23. Time of death around 3:30 this morning,” Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade told Sherlock and John in welcoming.

            John was already kneeling to examine the body on the floor. “She was clearly strangled,” he said, gesturing to her purplish neck with dark bruises. “Were the other victims killed this way?” he asked.

            “No,” Lestrade admitted. “But they went to the same school or knew each other in some other way.”

            “Have you searched her underwear drawer?” Sherlock asked suddenly. Lestrade and John looked at him perplexedly. He rolled his eyes impatiently. “You should look for drugs. Presumably cocaine or methamphetamine, judging by the state of her obviously recently used pipe over there,” he pointed to a small pipe on a bookcase. “The cash wad in her pocket and her expensive house décor for such a shabby home indicates she is a newly working drug dealer. Amateurs like this young woman keep the stash in less secure hiding places like dog food bags, pill bottles, or underwear drawers. She doesn’t have a dog, and she can’t trust her junkie friends not to go through her medicine cabinets. So it’s probably in her underwear drawer.”

            Lestrade and John stared.

“The other two victims were part of this little drug cartel as well,” Sherlock continued. “There is a pair of men’s shoes near the front door, possibly another victim’s. Maybe the there was jealousy within the group; maybe one member just wanted to take the business into his or her hands. Either way, three of the four members are now dead.”

            “How do you know there’s four of them?” Lestrade asked incredulously.

“The photograph.” Sherlock nodded to a picture of four people on a side table. “I assume the other two victims are in this picture?”

            Lestrade nodded. “Well then,” said Sherlock.

 He walked toward the window as John shrugged at the rather flustered-looking Lestrade. Anderson from the forensics department entered the room.

            “Oh, _he’s_ here?” he sneered upon spotting Sherlock. Sherlock smirked to himself with his back to the others.

            _Buzzz…_ Sherlock’s phone vibrated just as something caught his eye through the window on the street below. It was on the corner next to a shabby liquor store. But nothing was there. Somehow, it reminded him of his dream—out of place, yet familiar.

These feelings of recognition were maddening. Sherlock did not get déjà-vu; he had his mind palace and deductions to explain the unknown.

He didn’t get a good look at whatever had called his attention. He just knew it was something blue.


	2. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John returns from visiting his family. He and Sherlock also have a new case.

            “Sherlock?” John closed the door at 221B and set his keys on the counter. “I’m home, if you care,” He entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “Oh _Jesus_ , Sherlock—“

            John slammed the door when several pairs of severed eyes stared back at him on the shelf next to the jam. “Take-out, then,” John sighed. “Do you want—Sherlock? Have you not moved at _all_?”

            “Mmm.”

“Sherlock, you need to _eat_. And you haven’t slept, have you?” John walked towards where Sherlock was laying on the couch, whose hands were touching his lips in a prayer-like manner. “Take this,” John shoved a pill and a glass of water in Sherlock’s pensive face.

            Sherlock hadn’t slept in three days, but to be fair, he _had_ slept the day after John left to visit his family. “John, I--“

“Sherlock, I’m not only doing this for your sake. You’re enough of a prat when you _do_ have enough sleep.” Sherlock sighed loudly and grabbed the pill and glass from John.

            “I’m going to order in some Thai. I’ll get you something for when you wake up,” John returned to the kitchen to read the menu posted on the fridge. Sherlock tried to retort, but the sleeping pill was already beginning to work.

*********

A faint breeze quickly transformed into strong gusts of wind. The tinkle of a wind chime in a large gleaming tree became increasing sporadic, and it was gradually drowned out by a loud, scratchy buzzing . Sherlock looked around for the source of the commotion when everything became still once more.

            “Evening.”

Sherlock turned around at the sound of another man’s voice. The thin man with spiky hair playfully pushed Sherlock’s shoulder. “How’s it going? Where is he?”

            “There,” Sherlock heard himself answer. He pointed to a dark figure approaching them. It waved.

                     Their surroundings lit up as an enormous ball of light soared across the sky.

Sherlock looked back at the man walking towards him—it was John Watson. “No!” Sherlock was shouting. “John!” The light got brighter. “John!” Sherlock was blinded, he was vainly holding out his arm—

            “ _Sherlock!_ Sherlock, come on… It’s alright.” Sherlock woke up panting and sweltering. John had been shaking his shoulders.

                  “Are you okay? Here,” he handed him the leftover water. “What were you dreaming about?”

            Ms. Hudson entered the flat before Sherlock could answer. “Oh, I just came to see if everything was alright… I heard some shouting, but I’ll just leave you two alone.”

            John smiled at the sweet landlady. He then realized that he had been sitting on the couch next to the rather sweaty Sherlock and was holding his shoulders. “Oh, no, Ms. Hudson—“

            “Just keep it down, eh?” She winked and left.

Flustered, John stood up and muttered, “I’ll just go put on the kettle, then,” and strode away.

            Sherlock wasn’t listening, however. That was the second time he’s had a dream like that. It should only be natural John would appear in it, but who was the second man? He knew him, but he didn’t know how… Perhaps a corpse he’s stumbled across recently? No, he felt like he knew whomever it was intimately at one point.

            Sherlock fumbled around in the pocket of his robe and took out a pocket watch. He twiddled with it as John walked by with a steaming cup of tea. John paused.

            “That’s odd. I’ve a pocket watch just like that,” he said. “What?” he asked when Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

                       “Nothing. Just interesting,” Sherlock shrugged. John continued to his room.

Sherlock stopped fiddling with the watch. He examined its exterior. One side had a series of markings. It was a circle with lines and smaller circles within it.

*******

            “There was no sign of entry? At all?”

“No. And somehow they hacked into our computer system, so the cameras didn’t catch anything either.” The worried man massaged his hands and shifted his weight to the other foot.

            “That’s surprising, with the protection you’ve set up,” Sherlock sarcastically muttered under his breath, examining the software on one of the company's computers. The man looked at Sherlock. 

                    “How much was stolen?” John raised his voice. The man looked back at him.

“All of it,” he whispered. He looked on the verge of tears.

            John raised his eyebrows and let out a breath of disbelief. “Okay, thank you, Mr. Bates. We’ll tell you if we find anything.”

John waited for Mr. Bates to walk away before asking Sherlock, “Do you think we _will_ find anything?”

            “I don’t see why not.”

“Yeah, well… Definitely not a typical bank robber,” John pointed out.

            “Yeah, well… I’m definitely not a typical detective.”

 John rolled his eyes.

 

            Sherlock dramatically pushed back his chair and marched toward the vault’s open door. John examined the empty shelves. Nothing was left behind, not even a rubber band.

             Sherlock got flat on his stomach and pressed his ear to the floor.

“What are you—“

                                                “ _Shhh!_ ”

After a few seconds, Sherlock hopped back onto his feet with a satisfied smirk on his face. He strode to the shelf-less back wall and tapped on it several times in different places. He then tapped on an adjacent wall, producing a more resonant _thud_.

            “You hear that?” Sherlock asked.

                        John nodded.

“This bank is about a mile from the nearest Tube station. The robbers cleverly dug their own tunnel directly to this vault. They managed to disable security and began the robbery right after closing. It was clearly planned quite meticulously; even twelve hours is hardly enough time to break down a wall and recreate it, and almost impeccably so.” He touched the wall again.

           

John nodded in comprehension. “Well, I guess I’ll phone Lestrade, then.”

_Buzz, buzz, buzz…_ Sherlock whipped his head around at the noise. It was definitely not his phone. He ran out of the vault and continued running past the desks and the confused Mr. Bates.

“Mr. Holmes! Where are you going? Have you found anything?” he called after Sherlock. Sherlock ignored Bates as he ran out of the building.

He paused outside. The buzzing was getting fainter, but he thought it was coming from around the corner. He started running again.

“Hey!” Sherlock shouted. Another man, far in front of Sherlock, was also running. As Sherlock approached the corner, he saw a flash of brown hair disappear as the man rounded the corner.

Sherlock chased after the man. The buzzing began to become louder again. He finally got to the corner just as the buzzing began to fade once more.

He was in an alley. Trash was scattered randomly. Laughter from a television traveled through a window from a nearby apartment. But there was no one in the alley with Sherlock.

Sherlock leaned on the brick wall of the building and sighed. As he caught his breath, he looked down at a small object. He bent over and picked it up.

It was the size and shape of a wallet, but all it had was a blank sheet of paper in it. Sherlock pocketed the item and slowly walked back to the bank.


	3. Three Doctors and a Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock get a new case and see an old colleague.

             “You _can’t_ be serious.”

The young man tentatively looked up at Sherlock. “They told me you were the best, Mr. Holmes.” 

            “Certainly, I am,”—John huffed in annoyance—“but that is hardly relevant to your case, if I can even call it that.” Sherlock walked over toward the microscope on the kitchen table.

            “Well, whoever he was, he took my phone and—“ the potential client was interrupted by another phone ringing.

                        John took out his cell and looked at the caller ID. “Sorry, this will take just a sec.” The young man nodded, but he looked rather dejected.

            After a couple of minutes, John looked back and gave an apologetic smile. “Thanks, Henry. Well, I suppose we’ll just call you if we find anything worth pursuing… or rather, I guess we’ll email you.” Henry nodded and walked briskly to the door of the flat.                       

            Once the door snapped shut, John looked over to Sherlock to talk about his call. “That was a doctor I met at a medical convention last year… Looks like she has a case for us. Sounds interesting.”

                        Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “It can’t be very hard to be more interesting than a stolen phone.” But he began to put on on his dark blue scarf.

***

            “Hi, John. Good of you to come,” a youthful woman with dark brown hair shook John’s hand.

                        “Martha, this is my flat mate Sherlock Holmes. He’s a consulting detective.”

            “Nice to meet you. I’ve been reading about your cases on John’s blog.” Sherlock forced a smile and shook the doctor’s hand.

                        “So, what exactly do you need our help with?” John inquired.

            “Right. Better just follow me,” Martha led them down the halls of the hospital.

                        “You trained here at Royal Hope, right? But you transferred somewhere else for a while?”

            She gave a small, dreamlike smile. “Something like that.”

***

Sherlock leaned over the bodies, carefully analyzing each with narrowed eyes. A knowing smile formed on John’s face. Sherlock would never admit it, but John could tell the detective was very intrigued by this case.

                        “They were all killed differently?” John looked at Martha.

            “Yes. But I think it was all done by the same person.”

                                    “May I use your equipment?” Sherlock was already striding across the room to a lab table. He swabbed something off one of the bodies and transferred it onto a microscope slide.

            Martha raised an eyebrow. “I suppose so,” she said unenthusiastically. “Though it’s not mine. I don’t work in the morgue, that’s Richard—“

                                    “Do stop talking.”

                        Martha raised her eyebrows and glowered at Sherlock. But before she could retort, John cleared his voice and spoke up. “Have you contacted Scotland Yard?”

            “Yes, but they’ve just filed a report. They don’t think there’s enough information for a full-on investigation…” She hesitated. “I used to have a friend who, I guess, was kind of like Mr. Holmes”—she nodded toward Sherlock—“though he’s… out of town. But he did recommend you two, in case I needed help.”

                        “Oh?” John’s brow furrowed. “Was he a client of ours?”

             Martha smiled. “Not exactly. I suppose he just admired your work from afar.”

                        John nodded, but frowned.

                                    “The killer is quite theatrical,” Sherlock finally said. “This one had frog DNA on her lips. These two have breadcrumbs and sugar on their clothes. The forth looked like she was at a party—her dress was rather formal, but she’s missing a shoe. The princess and the frog, Hansel and Gretel, Cinderella: fairy tales.”

            “That’s not all.” Martha walked to another table. She picked up a folded business card and handed it to Sherlock. “I found this earlier today in the pocket of the woman’s dress—er, Cinderella. She was the most recently killed.” Sherlock held up the card and John read it over his shoulder. Giant, slender initials were printed into the card: “J M”. Only a number was written in small type underneath.

            “I haven’t called it,” Martha said.

                                    “Well, shall we?” Sherlock effortlessly slid his phone out of his pocket into his hand, quickly typed the digits, and hit send.

                        After a couple of moments, John asked, “Anything?”

                                    Sherlock shook his head. “Perhaps ‘J.M.’ can only be reached if he or she wants to be reached.”

            Martha sighed. “Well, thanks so much for coming. Call me if you think of anything. And I’ll call you if anything else happens.”

                        “Of course. I still work at St. Bart’s if you need to see me in person.”

                                    Sherlock gave an obligatory smile and fumbled in his coat for his pocket watch. He absentmindedly played with it.

            Martha stared. “Where did you get that?” she breathed.

                                    Both men looked at her curiously. “A family heirloom, I suppose,” Sherlock said carefully, studying the wide-eyed woman and her sudden change in demeanor.

            “Just—just stay a moment, will you? I think you may still be… needed.” She clumsily rummaged for her phone in her lab coat and dialed a number. “Come on, come on… Answer...” She paced anxiously, but abruptly stopped. “Thank God! Doctor, you’ve got to come. There is something you need to see.”


	4. A Madman and a Box

            “Remember, Saturday—“

                        “Yes, Saturday, noon, in Hyde Park, by the memorial fountain,” John recited to Martha.

            “Right. See you then!” She nodded, satisfied, and hurried down the hallway.

Sherlock looked at John as they turned to leave. “You don’t know who she was talking to?”

            John shook his head. “She said ‘doctor’, but I didn’t catch a surname.”

***

            “Come on,” John spoke gently to Sherlock. The third man was still standing near them, but when Sherlock looked back at him, his head was shaven and his face was drastically different. Sherlock felt out of sorts, yet continued to follow John.

            They walked for quite some time. The wind swept Sherlock’s curls into his eyes, and he involuntary squinted at the increasing intensity of the sunlight.

            But there was no sun.  Sherlock looked around for the source of glaring light; soon it entirely engulfed his vision in a painful whiteness. Panicking, Sherlock blindly called out to John. He thought he heard John’s voice call back—he reached out, but felt nothing. He shouted helplessly.

                        “John! _John_!”

 

            “Sherlock, jesus…”

Sherlock opened his eyes to find John at his side, looking genuinely concerned.

                        “John, I’m sorry if I… disturbed you. Just experiencing some tiresome dreams. I’m sure they’ll cease soon.”

            “No, Sherlock,” John looked down at him seriously, “you are not ‘just experiencing some tiresome dreams.’ You’ve been having these nightmares for a while now”—John spoke loudly over Sherlock’s retort—“and I think they must be brought on by some sort of post-traumatic stress. Look, I know you aren’t freaked out by murder or criminal masterminds like a lot of people are, but that isn’t to say you haven’t built up a major strain on a subconscious level. I’ll schedule you an appointment tomorrow.”

                        Sherlock whined. “I’m not crazy, my mother had me tested.”

            “No, Sherlock, you’re not crazy. Well, at least not dangerously. But just because you’re not crazy doesn’t mean you’re completely healthy. I think it’s best to make sure. I’ll contact the same person that helped me after I returned from Afghanistan.”

                        “Honestly, John, I don’t—“

            “Shut up, Sherlock. This is for your own good. And mine, too. I don’t like hearing someone shout my name in the middle of the night unless I’m there making them.”

***

Sherlock absentmindedly felt for his pocket watch in his pocket. He frowned as he studied the multitude of tabloid magazines fanned out on the table in front of him. _Nicki Minaj gets a Lil steamy with Wayne_ … _Rob Kardashian continues to woo brunette model Naza Jafarian_ … _I buried my fiancé and then the undertaker drove me straight to the hospital to give birth_ …

            And yet Sherlock Holmes was the one in a psychiatrist’s waiting room.

                        “I know this is asking a lot, but _please_ go into this with an open mind,” John implored. Sherlock just huffed.

            John’s phone vibrated and Sherlock flinched. John looked pointedly at his flat mate, but answered the call.

                        “Hello? Oh, Martha, nice to—oh… Oh God, really? Well… Yes, sure. Of course. Right.” John pocketed his phone. “That was Martha Jones, the doctor we met yesterday? Apparently—oh for God’s sake, Sherlock, where are you going?”

            “To Royal Hope Hospital. Dr. Jones needs our help, doesn’t she?”

                        “Yes, but—“

Sherlock was already half way out the entrance. John sighed as a woman opened an office door. “Sherlock Holmes?” she asked. John gave what he hoped was an apologetic smile as he explained the situation to her.

***

                        “Dammit, Sherlock,” John panted as he caught up with the detective, “you can’t just leave an appointment. You made a commitment.”

            “No, John, you made a commitment. Besides, this is much more interesting.”

                        John rolled his eyes.

            “So. Fresh killings?”

                        “Yes, but no need to sound so heartbroken.”

            “What? They’re already dead. Caring is not an advantage.”

                        “Maybe not, but it certainly could teach you a thing or two.”

            Sherlock sniffed, but didn’t respond.

 

Sherlock, his cheeks pink from the cold, loosened his scarf as he exited the lift with John.

                        “Martha?” John voiced. No reply.

            Sherlock strode over to the new bodies. “Hmm.”

                        “What is it?” John looked at the bodies as well.

            “These aren’t connected with the previous murders. Did Martha say anything about them on the phone?”

                        “Yeah, but she said she thought they were more ‘fairy tale’ killings… But I don’t think so either. There’s nothing distinguishable about these bodies: this one drowned, most likely accidental. The other died from this gash, looks like a stab wound. Probably in a clumsy bar fight, it doesn’t look intentional, either.”

            Sherlock nodded in agreement.

                        “Hmm, well, I’ll go look for her. Perhaps these aren’t even the bodies she was talking about.” But John sounded doubtful.

            Sherlock went over to the bodies he had examined the previous day when he heard John speak from the other room.

                        “Hey, Sherlock, do you suppose this is some sort of evidence?”

            “What, is it a potential weapon?” Sherlock walked towards John’s voice.

                        “No… it’s a box.”

            “A box? How big— _oh_.”

Sherlock stopped mid-sentence and mid-step as he saw what John was referring to.

                        “A police box.”

Big, narrow, blue, vintage. Sherlock slowly approached it, absorbing all its details.

            “I know this—I’ve seen this before,” he muttered, stepping closely.

                        “Me too, it’s one of those 1950s police boxes—“

            “ _No_ , it’s not. I’ve seen this before,” Sherlock repeated decidedly. He reached out to touch its door.

                        “I don’t understand. Where have you--?”

As Sherlock’s palm came into contact with the blue box, his body convulsed. John rushed forward to catch the unconscious detective.


	5. Children of Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter is so short!

            “Oh, god…” John was immediately at Sherlock’s side. Sherlock was limp, his eyes closed, but breathing. He looked peaceful, as if he were sleeping. Well, if he slept normally, without all the thrashing and shouting.

            John hardly noticed as Martha Jones stepped out of the blue box. Her smile quickly vanished and her voice shook as she called back into the box.

                        “Doctor!”

Another person suddenly appeared behind Martha. The thin man in a brown pin-stripe suit knelt next to John to examine Sherlock.

                                    “What happened?” the man asked John.

            “I don’t know... He touched the police box and—sorry, who are you?”

                                    “I’m the Doctor.” He pulled out a long silver object, slightly larger than a pen, out of his jacket pocket. He hovered it above Sherlock’s body. It buzzed and lit up, as if scanning for something. John continued to watch as the Doctor brought the silver object up into the light and squinted, reading whatever the device had calculated.

                                    “He’s alright…” the Doctor announced, but his eyes were wide and there was a hint of a smile on his face. “But, oh, how fantastic…”

            “What is?” John’s brow furrowed. “Who exactly are you, Doctor? Do you work at Royal Hope?”

                                                “No. He’s an alien—a Time Lord.”

Everyone looked at Sherlock. “You’re okay?” John muttered to him. Sherlock didn’t respond, continued to intently stare at John. John’s look of concern and confusion deepened as he observed the detective. Sherlock seemed even paler than usual, and his lashes were damp. Was Sherlock crying?

                                                “John,” Sherlock whispered, so quietly that only John heard.

                                    “Well, Mr. Holmes, it seems like you know who I am. But who are you?”

                                                “Wrong,” Sherlock said simply, his voice suddenly stronger and laced with a smidge of his usual careless arrogance. “The question you should be asking is who. Are. _We_.”

            The Doctor frowned. Sherlock spoke again. “Doctor, do mind if you and Dr. Jones leave for a moment? I need to speak to John privately.”

            Martha narrowed her eyes slightly in suspicion, but the Doctor slowly nodded. He and Martha went into the next room.

            Once alone, John questioned Sherlock. “What’s happened? Who was that ‘Doctor’? And what do you mean he’s an alien, a Time Lord or whatever you—“

            Suddenly Sherlock was kissing him. John barely had time to process the situation before his mind was assaulted by hundreds, thousands, millions of memories.

            The miles of the red plains of grass. The great silver trees. The robes of the Time Lord High Council. The Doctor. Sherlock. Gallifrey. The Time War.

                                                “Do you remember?” Sherlock breathed once the kiss was broken.

            “Yes.” John was panting. He felt dizzy from the intense rush of emotions and quick intake of memory. And from realizing he had just kissed his sociopathic flat mate.

                                                “Doctor,” Sherlock raised his voice.

            The Doctor and Martha walked back into the morgue. “Done already?”

                                                “Martha told you about the watch,” Sherlock stated.

            The Doctor’s face was focused. “Yes.”

                                                “Then you know what I am. What _we_ are.” Sherlock touched John’s hand.

                                    “John is--? But why don’t I remember—“

                                                “Let me show you.” Sherlock lightly touched the Doctor’s shoulder.

                        “What are you doing to him?” Martha’s voice was high as she watched the Doctor wince and squeeze his eyes shut.

            But in a few seconds it was over. “It’s okay Martha. I’m fine.” He stared at the two other Time Lords for a couple more seconds before a large, goofy smile spread across his face. “Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. The world’s only consulting detective with his army doctor and blogger. Fellow children of time.”


	6. Not Bored

“Piece of cake.”

            Miss Wenceslas leaned forward. Her voice shook with nervousness laced with excitement as she clutched her red purse. “So, are you interested?”

            “I’ll be in touch,” the disguised voice said simply over the conference phone.

            The line went dead. Miss Wenceslas remained in her chair for a few seconds and took a deep breath. She stood up as she checked her phone. She frowned. Already forty-three new messages.

 

Miss Wenceslas’s heels clicked as she walked up stairs. She ignored her growing headache as she strode directly into the den of her handsomely furnished flat. She removed a framed photograph from the wall behind her desk, revealing a large safe. After putting in the code and opening the door, she sighed with relief. A flat rectangular object wrapped loosely in beige packaging was leaning against the wall of the safe. Just as she left it.

            Miss Wenceslas’s phone beeped. She opened the new text messages.

 

_You found the lost Vermeer! Congratulations. Your prize is a new exhibition, announced tomorrow. Please play again soon! –M_

_P.S. Have a little bubbly for me. –M_

Miss Wenceslas’s brow furrowed. She checked the safe again and felt behind the rectangular object. She found a bottle of champagne and a slim glass. She stared at it briefly before pouring herself a glass. She raised it, and whispered, “Thank you, Moriarty.”

 

 _I AM CERTAIN_ , James Moriarty typed. He shut his laptop and sighed. He looked around. Several papers were strewn randomly on the ground as were chairs and other miscellaneous items. “Clean this up,” he told somebody.

            He walked into the next room. Someone else handed him a water bottle. He took a sip and muttered to himself. “Sherlock Holmes…”

            Something in the corner of the room caught his eye. He strolled over to it. It was a small brown box with a post-it slapped on top.

 

_From one M to another. Hope you aren’t too bored! –M_

Moriarty opened the box. Inside was a silver pocket watch with a matching chain. It shimmered in the dim light as Moriarty turned it over in his hand. There were engraved symbols on the outside of it: circles, lines, other small shapes.

            Moriarty traced one of the larger circles with his finger. “No,” he whispered. “Not bored.”


End file.
